


no rain, no flowers

by falloutmars



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Language of Flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falloutmars/pseuds/falloutmars
Summary: Betty loves flowers.She harbored some resentment for them for some time after her mother smothered her childhood home with them, probably to mask the reality of the house that had a serial killer living there. So for some time, Betty hated them.She’d begun re-thinking her opinion when he brings her home a single red rose.–or,Betty hated flowers until she didn't.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 44
Kudos: 93
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	no rain, no flowers

Betty loves flowers.

She harbored some resentment for them for some time after her mother smothered her childhood home with them, probably to mask the reality of the house that had a serial killer living there. So for some time, Betty hated them.

When she and Jughead scraped enough money together for six months’ rent on a small apartment of their own, she makes it known to him that she does not want flowers in their home. _Their home_ made them both smile like giddy teenagers, though, so there were no hard feelings between them when she announced this.

She’d begun re-thinking her opinion when he brings her home a single red rose.

“What’s this for?” she says, taking the flower from his outstretched hand. She brings it up to her nose, taking in the sweet scent. It smells heavenly and the flower itself is beautiful, although she’s sure the color of her face now matches that of it.

He shrugs. “An old woman was selling them on Main Street and I felt too guilty walking past.”

She almost laughs. It’s just… he’s so adorably awkward, and she’s not remotely surprised that’s how he ended up with a single rose.

“She said I looked like I had a lovely wife at home,” he continues, “so that’s what sold it. I know she probably says that to everyone but–“

She cuts him off mid-sentence, pressing her lips to his and wrapping her arms around his neck. The stem of the rose pokes into his back, but she just hopes he doesn’t mind.

“I love you so much, Jughead Jones,” she says when she pulls back, slightly breathless. 

“I love you, too,” he replies, seemingly a little dazed with her actions as he blinks almost in disbelief.

The flower, in a drinking glass due to their lack of vases, gets placed on their tiny dining table, bringing a smile to Betty’s face every time she glances at it.

The following morning, Jughead is up before her making them both breakfast when she plods into the kitchen, messy hair, and bleary-eyed. He’s cooking up pancakes – because he’s a _Jones_ – so she wanders up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

“G’morning,” she mumbles, her face pressing into his back.

She hears him flip a pancake onto the plate before spinning around in her arms to face her and pressing a brief kiss to her lips. “Morning, baby.”

“You made pancakes.” “That I did.” He gestures to the table. “I’ll bring them over.” She steals another kiss from him before sliding into the chair facing the kitchen. The table in front of her is set: placemats she insisted on buying, knives and forks, a bottle of syrup, and the drinking glass slash vase holding the flower he’d picked up yesterday. It sits proudly in the middle, acting as a centerpiece for their table, the deep red velvet color seamlessly matching the gray/white aesthetic of their apartment. 

Bringing her hand up, she lets her fingertips gently trace the petals of the flower. It’s softer than she thought, and it’s beautiful. She can almost feel her resentment for flowers dwindling. 

Jughead must notice her studying it. As he places a stack of pancakes in front of her, he says, “Apparently different flowers mean different things.”

She looks up at him, nodding her thanks as he sits opposite her. “What does this mean?”

“Love. Red means love.” He lets out a breathy laugh. “It’s cliche, isn’t it?”

Tilting her head to the side, she finds herself studying the flower again. “Yeah,” she says quietly, “but I like it.”

–

The rose only survives for a few days. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really, considering it was a lone rose supplied by a randomer on the street, but she can’t help feel a pang of disappointment when she goes downstairs one morning to find it completely wilted.

“The flower’s dead,” she points out to Jughead, who is, of course, making coffee.

“Oh. Yeah.” He shrugs, holding out a mug for her. “Guess we can go back to a flower-free life.” She takes the mug and hums sadly. “I was starting to like it.”

“Huh,” is all he says in response. 

She doesn’t think that much more of it if she’s honest. The flower gets thrown in the bin and their table goes back to being… bland. She misses the color and briefly wonders whether she should buy an ornament or something as a permanent addition, but the thought doesn’t linger for longer than a moment.

That evening, she trudges home from work later than usual. She’s had one of those days, and all she wants is to cuddle up with Jughead under a blanket and fall asleep on the couch in front of a crappy movie. Being Friday, it means they can do that without feeling like they have to go to bed early for work the next day.

When she opens the door, the smell of dinner comes flooding towards her. 

“Hello!” he calls from the other end of the apartment.

She follows the smell to the kitchen, deciding that he’s cooking her favorite: pasta bake. Entering the kitchen, she sees him shredding cheese on the top of a dish.

“Mm, smells wonderful,” she says, dropping her bag in the doorway. 

“Your favorite,” he grins as he turns around, chunks of cheese dropping on the floor.

She doesn’t let herself get pissed at him, pretending she doesn’t see it and looking the other way.

“You okay?” “Bad day,” she says by way of an explanation. Not wanting to talk about it, she turns her attention to the refrigerator. It’s home to the many magnets they’ve collected from their trips together. Seattle, Los Angeles, Toronto, among others. She smiles at the memory of each trip.

Behind her, she can hear him put the bake in the oven and set the timer. Then she feels the heat of him against her back before his arms are wrapping around her. “It’s okay,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head. 

She sighs contentedly, feeling her worries from the day drain away to be remembered when she’s ready to talk about them. “Thank you,” she mumbles as she leans her weight onto him.

“I left you a little something on the table, by the way.”

Turning around to face him, she’s smiling. “Dinner and a gift? What are you: the perfect man?” He chuckles and leans in to kiss her. “For you, maybe,” he says before connecting their lips.

_Yeah,_ she thinks, _I think you are_.

When they pull apart, there’s a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips. His hands move to collect hers and he gently sways side to side.

“What’s that look for?” she says, smiling herself.

He shrugs, dropping one of her hands and point towards the table. 

Her eyes follow his hand until they land on a brand new vase filled with a full bouquet of flowers. Tulips, she thinks, red and yellow. They’re beautiful, lighting up the room in exactly the right way. And the vase – a proper one – is a simple cylinder one with a tiny heart engrained into the glass. He must’ve bought it especially.

“I went to the florist on Park Street today,” he tells her, “and I got in a conversation with the girl that worked there. I told her about you and… she recommended those.” There’s a lump in her throat. “They– Wow, they’re beautiful.”

“The red is a declaration of love,” he continues. He fiddles with her fingers and his voice is small, almost hesitant. “And the yellow means–” he takes a deep breath “–sunshine in your smile. It reminded me of you.”

She looks over at the flowers again. They stand tall, the colors alternating as if they’d been placed in a pattern. Then she looks over at Jughead. He’s smiling at her, her hand intertwined with his. 

“I think you _are_ the perfect guy,” she whispers, tears forming at the edge of her eyes. “You’re perfect for me.”

_~fin._

**Author's Note:**

> hello and thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this little piece of fluff. as always, comments and kudos make my day and i appreciate every single one of them.
> 
> join me on [tumblr](https://fallout-mars.tumblr.com/) for bughead and me being a mess.
> 
> thank you ❤️


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